


Over The Weekend We Can Turn The World To Gold

by taormina



Category: Take That (Band)
Genre: Concert, First Kiss, Fluff, I REALLY LIKE WRITING ABOUT FIRST KISSES OKAY, M/M, Romance, first date sorta, gary is a music nerd, inspired by a mixed-up memory of all the concerts I’ve been to recently, mark buys expensive gifts for his crushes, ticker tape kisses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-04
Updated: 2015-07-04
Packaged: 2018-04-07 15:47:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4269105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taormina/pseuds/taormina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mark and Gary go to a concert together. Gary just wants to enjoy the music. Mark has different ideas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Over The Weekend We Can Turn The World To Gold

Concerts always made Mark feel nostalgic. Something about that strong smell of beer and pyrotechnics, and the way the spotlights changed colour during songs, painted Technicolor images of previous Take That tours in his mind’s eye. Then came the voices of the crowd, forming a flawless harmony with the singer’s vocals, and the perfect picture of Mark's past was complete.

Every little thing transported him to days gone by. Inspired him, too; in the back of his mind, he always made a list of ideas that he wanted to take home with him.

In the arena’s security guards, he saw their James and Paul. In the reflection of the venue’s glass doors, he saw his fans, tiptoeing in comfortable shoes, hoping to catch a glimpse of a steward who might let them in. In the empty stage before him he saw a previous version of himself, soaring towards a transcendent state of musical ecstasy. But this isn’t a Take That concert that this story is about.

It was a hot summer in LA. While discussing acts and songs and current events that may be worth basing their new record on, Gary had casually mentioned wanting to see a certain LA-based band very much. They were the “masters of pop melodies”, Gary had said, and apparently “above average live”. Seeing a golden opportunity there, Mark immediately went online and bought tickets for the band’s next show once he got back in his air-conditioned hotel room. The tickets were fucking expensive even for someone who was rolling in money, but it was a small price to pay for the fun they’d be having.

The next morning Mark lied to Gary that a mate of his who knew a guy who knew the band’s manager had managed to grab a pair of tickets, and that's how Mark and Gary ended up going to a concert together. Indeed, he'd somehow forgotten to invite Howard along!

(Note: We wish we could tell you which act the boys were seeing, but we'd get in trouble if we did.)

Mark, not having had a single moment with alone Gary since they arrived in the States to work on their eighth studio album two weeks ago, was looking forward to the concert very much. It was the closest to a date with Gary he'd ever get. Not that he treated it as such, of course. He definitely wasn't. Nope. This was not a date.

Still, Mark couldn't help but feel a flutter of excitement when he met up with Gary at the hotel car park on a Saturday afternoon.

Gary was driving tonight. Since people tended to stare at him funny if they saw him on the motorway, and because he preferred being able to write songs in the back of a car anyway, he usually had a chauffeur back in the UK. But now that he was abroad and capable of driving a car without passers-by shouting song lyrics at him, he liked to drive as much as he could.

Gary was wearing a grey hoodie, which Mark thought was a little weird: it _was_ quite hot (read: the weather), and it’s not like Gary had a terrible body . . . Then again, hoodies always drove Mark's imagination wild, so he wasn’t complaining. At all.

Mark himself had opted for a simple, black T-shirt. He didn't want to look like he'd dressed up for the occasion (he hadn't, _okay_ ), so this seemed like the most inconspicuous choice. That didn't mean he hadn't put on some nice aftershave, though. Just in case.

The concert venue – a large, rectangular arena conveniently placed abreast a busy shopping centre – was only a ten-minute ride away, so they got there in no-time.

It wasn't until they got out of the car that Mark admitted they had general admission tickets rather than the more “exclusive” seats that Gary had been going on about in the car.

‘You're joking!’ said Gary. He closed the car door much harder than he had intended, and a father and his two dressed-up kids started walking a little faster. ‘I thought we had a VIP box and everything.’ He glanced at the pedestrians who were headed to the arena via a modern-looking walk bridge. The bridge connected the venue and its car park perfectly. ‘I dunno about this, mate, what if someone recognizes us?’

Mark shrugged. ‘It'll be dark.’

‘Not when we're queuing, it won't be.’

Mark thought about this. ‘Lots of our famous friends have gone to _our_ gigs without being recognized, haven't they?’

‘Yeah, but that's just coz everyone's too busy looking at _us,_ ’ Gary argued. ‘No-one cares ‘bout stars visiting _our_ shows when _we’re_ flying on a bloody bicycle.’ He looked at the walk bridge again. More fans were ascending it now. Most of them, Gary found, looked an awful lot like they could be Take That fans.

Still, Mark didn’t see the issue. He argued that _if_ someone recognized them,  rumour might spread that  Take That were working on their new album with this band, and the more fabricated smoke and mirrors surrounding album seven, the better. After all, they weren’t keen on telling everyone what they were working on just yet . . .

For some reason, this argument seemed to put Gary’s mind at ease. ‘Oh, all right, but I _do_ wanna be at the barrier, Marko – me back’s killing me already.’

Mark nearly uttered a sentence that included, among others, the words “offer” and “massage”, but he managed to swallow the remark at the last minute.

Thankfully, everything proceeded much better than Mark and Gary could have hoped. Not a single person in the queue recognized them (which, Mark later admitted, _did_ slightly disappoint him; they _really_ needed to start thinking about doing more American promo), and they even managed to get a spot on the front row despite getting lost. Twice.

By the time the support act kicked off their set (which was bloody awful, thanks for asking), the boys felt more “ordinary” than they both had in a very long time. It felt amazing to finally be able to go out without having paparazzi trying to catch them doing something silly at every turn.

The support act was so thoroughly shit that Gary started talking to a bored security guard to pass the time, and soon Mark was in the middle of (but not contributing to) a discussion about the venue itself: it had that many seats, such and such held the record for the most consecutive performances, this is how many trucks were needed to build the headliner’s stage, etc. Mark didn't find the chat as interesting as Gary did, but he _loved_ seeing him talk about something that interested him so much. The way Gary's cheeks turned crimson as he talked to the security guard about grand pianos and confetti was incredibly endearing.

Then the lights went out and the concert started for real, and Mark saw a side of Gary that he wished he could see more often. He had naturally seen Gary lost into landscapes of sound before, but this was something else. This was what Mark saw every night _they_ performed: the amazed expressions of their fans; the creative banners that hung over barriers; 20,000 pairs of hands, raised high into the air – but _better._ Gary wasn't screaming like the rest of the crowd. He wasn't even singing along that much, but the way he was tapping his fingers on the barrier, his eyes wide in awe, spoke volumes.

Every now and then Gary would tell Mark something about the song the band was performing, stuff about production and lyrical themes and so on, but Mark's brain didn't really register much of the meaning of Gary's words; all he could hear was how utterly _joyous_ Gary sounded. Watching Gary was, in fact, a bigger spectacle than what was happening on stage right now.

Time passed as it usually does at concerts: very fast and yet very slowly, like they were in a vacuum suspended from the rest of time. Eventually, the band left the stage. A thundering roar from the audience followed. People chanted the names of the band, asking them for more, more, more. The lights that had previously illuminated the stage went out, and Mark felt the immense urge to kiss Gary. It was a magnetic pull unlike any he had ever experienced. His brain had only needed one-tenth of a second to form the thought, and yet it was powerful enough to make it the only thing he could think about.

It wasn't just about Gary's inviting lips, or being closer to Gary physically than he had ever been. It wasn't just a spontaneous urge, either; it was a deep, deep _want_ , nestled deep inside his stomach —and, after all, wanting was _good_. Wanting had made the band get back together. Wanting improved their performances. So, Mark asked himself, _what could be so wrong about that?_

At the end of the day, however, the magnetic pull was purely about answering the questions that lay heavy on Mark's mind: did Gary like him? Would they, if Gary only gave it a shot, be as amazing together as Mark hoped they would?Only by taking this faithful step would Mark's questions be answered, and only by getting these answers would his mind finally be at rest.

Of course, the abstract concept of kissing Gary was not a recent “thing”. Most recently Mark had nearly given in to his desires and kissed Gary at some awards ceremony — only to lean in for an awkward head-bumping hug at the last minute. Back then, kissing Gary would have led to many a journalist asking awkward questions. _Now_ , in a room full of blissfully unaware music enthusiasts, his actions shrouded by thousands of bodies in motion, the potentially disastrous consequences of kissing Gary didn't seem so disastrous.

He had to think fast, though.

The lights were still out.

The stage was empty.

_God,_ Mark didn't want tonight's songs to be forever associated with what could have been.

The encore was about to begin.

It was now or never.

Gary looked at him. He was saying something incomprehensible about a guitar, but he was cut short when Mark kissed him on the mouth. Right there, in the middle of the crowd.

The kiss was not enough to dispel Mark's doubts: it was quick and subtle and not more than a peck, really, and when Gary staggered away from him with wide, surprised eyes, Mark immediately knew his feelings were not mutual.

He regretted the kiss immediately.  
  
‘ _Shit,_ Gary, I'm so, so sorry,’ Mark blundered out. His heart rate was off the charts. His legs started shaking. He'd gotten it so, so very wrong. ‘I – I don't know what's g-gotten into me,’ he stammered, holding on to the barrier for dear life in case his legs gave out. There was no way he'd get away with this. There wasn't a single excuse that he could make up that would make it all better.

He’d kissed his best mate on the mouth. _Fuck_.

An all-consuming, tangled up confusion of dread and guilt and panic rose up in his chest, making it hard to breathe. He'd fucked this up so hard.

‘I just –’ stammered Mark, his words no more than an incoherent mess, ‘I – I just thought – if – I mean – I really thought that – Oh _God_ , Gary –’

Mark rambled on for a full minute until Gary grabbed his shoulders demonstratively.

‘ _Mark_ ,’ said Gary sternly. This was it. Their friendship was over. He and Howard would have to form a duo now. Mark would have to spend the rest of his life releasing underperforming solo albums. He'd probably never speak to Gary again.

_Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. Oh God._

‘Mark, mate,’ came Gary's voice again, snapping Mark out of it, ‘I'm absolutely _thrilled_ , I am, but _now_? _Really_?’

‘But –’ Mark started, ready to pour out excuse after excuse — then he realised what Gary had said. ‘Wait, _wha_ t?’

Mark wasn’t sure what was going on anymore. Gary . . .  was _thrilled_? With what?

With . . . the _kiss_?

_What_?

Gary noticed Mark’s confusion; his features softened, and a smile played on his lips. It was only now that Mark noticed that Gary was shaking as much as _he_ was. ‘I just don't wanna miss _Don't Stop_ , is all,’ said Gary, as if that explained everything. ( _Don't Stop_ was the name of the headliner’s triple platinum hit from last winter. Gary liked the song an awful lot.) ‘Do you mind waiting? ‘s only about ten minutes, this encore.’

Mark had no idea what to say to that, so he simply replied with a confused squeak. Gary smiled nervously and faced the stage again.

Gary . . . hadn't ended their friendship? He wanted to . . . _kiss_ him? Had he heard that right?

Mark didn't have much time to reflect on these questions, however; the lights came back on, and red hot pillars of fire shot out of a grill at the front of the stage one by one, creating a symphony of heat and light. _They've stolen that idea from us,_ Mark thought, and the way Gary was looking at him told him that Gary was thinking the exact same thing.

Gone was the wall of fire, and back came the band, jumping head-first into the first verse of what turned out to be a very good song indeed. The band – accompanied by their background singers, who had spent most of the evening in the back – did what most musicians usually did at this point of a concert: they thanked absolutely _everyone_ , and yet they managed to pull off an even better performance than before.

The audience was going wild, and the excitement was catching on: even Mark, who wasn't a particularly big fan of the band, found himself singing along to the final song of the evening by the time the final chorus kicked in.

The music grew towards a beautiful crescendo, the drum beats and strings and guitar twangs becoming louder and louder until they blended together to form a melodic finale. Two large tubes shot white ticker tape into the air. The spotlights turned red, painting the falling pieces of paper a soft pink. The sight was beautiful to behold, and for a moment Mark forgot the silly things he’d done that evening, and was instead transported to that eventful spring they'd all had that year, performing Greatest Day behind a see-through curtain of confetti night after night.

He formed his hand into a bowl, trying to catch a single piece of ticker tape that – for some reason – looked more magical than the rest. He managed it, and it was a testimony for achieving the impossible in a rainstorm of possibilities, for Gary then cupped Mark's face with his hands and kissed him.

The piece of ticker tape  slipped out of Mark's hand and fell onto a makeshift bed of paper, and the mobile sea of white disappeared as Mark closed his eyes.

This was everything he’d ever wanted.

With Gary applying just the perfect amount of pressure on Mark's lips, the kiss was much better than their hurried first try all those choruses and verses ago. It was arguably better than every kiss Mark had ever had, and it way exceeded every scenario Mark had ever dreamed up: from kissing Gary in the studio after dark to giving Gary a peck on the mouth in the middle of an interview.

He could never have imagined that kissing Gary would feel this good. Gary was gentler than in his daydreams. Softer. And yet the kiss was as sexy as Mark had hoped: Gary traced his lips with the tip of his tongue and ran his fingers down Mark's back, and Mark melted into the kiss. The still descending ticker tape tickled his bare arms, but it was nothing compared to the feeling of Gary's hands on his hips, pulling him closer and closer until their chests were touching. It was like they were one and the same person, the heat of the crowd melting them together.

Then the music stopped and the last piece of ticker tape fluttered down the sky, brushing Gary's nose. The lights went back on, and as though on cue the lads broke off the kiss, their foreheads still touching, craving that last moment of intimacy.

By the time the boys were more or less capable of speaking coherently, the crowd had already started towards the exits. A few fans were still lingering at the barrier, hoping to take home a paper setlist or plectrum as momentum. Whatever they’d end up taking home with them, it wouldn’t be as good as the kiss he’d stolen from Gary, Mark thought.  
  
‘So. _That_ just happened,’ Mark said as casually as he could, brushing the ticker tape out of his hair. He was still shaking all over. There was something else he wanted to say to Gary, but he wasn't quite sure what. Instead, all he could do was look at a very flustered Gary while he brushed the paper off his shoulders.

‘Not a great look, this,’ said Gary finally. He was awkwardly trying to retrieve pieces of ticker tape that had somehow ended up in his hood. He wasn't looking Mark in the eyes, and it wasn’t until now that Mark realized that Gary's cheeks were bright red. It was _adorable._ ‘Also, you've made me miss me photo opportunity!’ said Gary, gesturing at the emptying stage.

The remark made Mark laugh. ‘God, you're so _romantic_. That all you care about?’ he asked warmly, nodding at the members of crew who were busy dismantling the stage props. ‘We did just, you know, kiss.’

‘Hang on, I _know_ , just –' Gary found another piece of ticker tape in the pockets of his hoodie. ‘Just let me just wrap me head around this for a second here— ‘s not every day you find out your best mate fancies you back.’

_Fancies you back._

Gary . . . fancied him.

‘Right, sorry, I'll just . . . count the pieces of ticker tape on the floor while you think about it,’ Mark said, his lips pressed together hard to stop himself from grinning like an idiot. He picked up a handful of ticker tape to give himself something to do, his face screwed up in mock concentration while he counted the pieces of paper one by one.

‘You _could_ have told me earlier, mate,’ said Gary after a while. Looking as hot as Mark felt, he pulled down the zip of his hoodie a few inches.

He wasn’t wearing anything underneath.

Not. A. Thing.

Mark’s eyes shifted to Gary’s chest, and he scrunched up the pieces of paper in his fist to stop himself from saying something utterly embarrassing. ‘D’you mean, erm , _before_ the concert?’

‘A _bit_ earlier than that,’ said Gary. ‘How long have you known?’

Mark thought about this. How long _had_ he known?

They were only one of the few people still in the arena. A very tall and intimidating security guard came over and told them in a very polite manner to fuck off, but Mark didn’t want to leave. The moment they stepped out of those large black doors to join the queue for the cloakroom, the moment they'd just shared would be over. It would be left behind, here, amidst the ticker tape and beer glasses and coke bottles, never to be found again. Here is where they kissed for the first time. Here is where Mark wanted to stay.

But they couldn't; Gary had already told him to do as the nice security guard said. He’d ask Mark his question again later. Maybe.

Gary steered Mark through the large double doors that separated the arena from the main reception area. It felt like a spiritual divide as well as a physical one; the moment the doors shut behind them with a loud _thud,_ the kiss already felt like a lifetime ago, kept from them by threatening security guards.

Mark blinked against the bright lamps that adorned the ceiling. A waft of heat and sweat and baked goods hit him, and he remembered with a pang that he and Gary were not alone, and never had been. Singing concertgoers were queuing up for the cloakroom. Others were in line at the food stands and merchandise stalls, buying hot dogs and T-shirts. Children begged their parents to buy them ice cream.

The busy atmosphere was overwhelmingly different from what Mark was used to seeing at arenas: their dancers warming up in restrooms; sound technicians and stylists making them look and sound at their best; fans not _in_ , but outside the doors, waiting. Not only that, but the bustle was worlds removed from how Mark had felt during that kiss, so separated from the rest of the world. Now, they were still in the same place, still surrounded by hundreds upon hundreds of people, but he no longer felt like he and Gary were the only ones alive. It made Mark crave intimacy like he had never felt before, and he found himself walking a little closer to Gary with every step.

Before Mark knew it, they were in the busy queue for the cloakroom, just waiting and not talking, afraid that words would only break the final chain of the love spell that had been cast upon them. A large, drunk lady shoved Mark out of the way to jump the queue. Mark bumped into Gary in the process, and their hands touched.

Mark was so busy profusely apologizing to the lady for being in her way that it took him a few seconds to realize that a very red-looking Gary had taken his hand in his. It's like an electric charge soared through him, charging his senses and turning his black and white world into bright, sparkling gold. His hand fitted perfectly in Gary's like they were made for this moment and each other. In all his daydreams about Gary, Mark had never even _imagined_ doing something as simple as holding Gary's hand. After the fanfare of the concert, the simplicity of the gesture felt strangely intimate.

Mark looked at the people around them. Everyone was lost in their own little world, singing and chatting, and moaning that the queue was too long. Yet — if someone recognized them and saw what they were doing, they'd have a helluva lot of explaining to do.

It was a risk that Mark was willing to take over and over, but he wasn't sure if Gary was.

Then again, Mark wasn’t sure if Gary had ever held a guy’s hand, period. Perhaps that had been Gary’s first kiss with a guy. Perhaps it had been his one hundredth.

Despite being really great friends, the boys never really talked about their love lives. Even back in the nineties, when girls would literally queue up to be alone with them, they kept their cards close to their hearts. Sure, they’d boast about their private achievements every now and then (with Howard mostly talking about the size of a girl’s tits), but with a manager who had rather they stay single, they usually just pretended they spent their nights playing Jenga. Consequently the boys’ preferences were never really discussed, and Mark blindly assumed he was the only one who slept with Hilton’s handsome sommeliers as well as the hotel’s pretty maids.

‘You sure about this?’ Mark asked Gary.

Gary squeezed Mark’s hand firmly, and that answered everything.

After what seemed like forever, it was finally the boys’ turn to pick up their stuff. They traded in numbered pieces of paper for their bags, and off they went through the venue’s large, glass exits. Both of them still too afraid to break the enchantment of the moment by talking, they wordlessly headed towards the parking lot via the same street walk that they walked six hours previously. It was paved with aesthetic lights for half a mile, and it couldn’t have looked more fitting.

The temperature had more or less  stayed the same. The smell of the trees that lined the streets still made Mark think of home.  People still walked the walk bridge over the busy road, the illuminated city a mere blip in the distance from their point of view — and yet Mark felt as though his whole world had been turned upside down, watching every little thing with a new pair of eyes. It’s like he was an entirely complete person now that he had Gary by his side properly, holding his hand in the dark.

 ‘It was a Monday in May or June, I think,’ said Mark after a while, remembering the question that Gary had asked him before they left the arena. They were walking slowly towards the car park along with hundreds upon hundreds of other concert goers, lingering at red traffic lights at  empty crossroads because they were both dreading going back to the hotel and _forgetting_. It was already way past eleven, and Mark decided to focus on a lone star in the sky so he didn't have to look Gary in the eyes. He'd probably become an embarrassing mess if he did.

Mark continued, ‘We'd, erm, we'd just done this gig at Wembley arena or something, and it was _you_ , I think, who went, you know, “Let's try to write a song together. Let's see what happens.” So, erm, three hours later we've come up with this amazing song, erm, Wait For Life I think it was, and you go in to record it and — and it's the most beautiful thing I'd ever heard. Chillingly good, that was, and, erm, that's . . . that's when I knew, really. There was just something about hearing your voice on a track that we’d all written, you know, that – that really connected with me. Weird, I know,” he added finally. The story had sounded much better in his head.  

Gary remained oddly quiet.

 ‘So, erm, what about you?’ Mark said timidly. He wished Gary would say something.

Gary shook his head several times in quick succession. ‘I'm too embarrassed now; your story's much better than mine.’

‘Oh, come on,’ said Mark, nudging Gary's side with his elbow.

Gary scratched the back of his head. A piece of ticker tape was still stuck to his neck. When Mark's fingers brushed Gary's skin to remove it, Gary responded with something that sounded a bit like a yelp. Mark made a mental note remember that Gary was ticklish.

‘ _Flaws_ , for me,’ Gary said in a higher voice than usual. ‘From the tour, that is,’ he mumbled.

Mark frowned as he tried to recollect why that could have been such a pivotal moment for Gary. It _did_ seem rather . . . insignificant in comparison with Mark's story.

Then he remembered.

‘Are you saying you only like me for me great body? You dirty bastard.’ Mark said, causing Gary to turn a scarlet red. Mark grinned like a schoolboy who’d just discovered the headmaster’s secret stash of Elizabeth II memorabilia: he was bloody _thrilled_ with this information. He just _knew_ he hadn't imagined Gary glancing at him throughout their performances of the ballad. This news, Mark thought, was going to change the European leg of the tour considerably.

‘What? No!’ Gary stammered. He nearly stumbled over a loose tile on the pavement, and Mark bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing. _So cute._ Gary went on, ‘I mean, I'd suspected I had feelings for you before, but it really confirmed it for me, that outfit did. I mean, er, the choreography. Um.’

Gary looked like the human embodiment of a crashed computer.

Mark bit his lip. ‘The _choreography_? You mean that bit when I'm on me knees on the floor?’

Gary wisely said nothing. Mark felt secretly pleased that he was capable of turning Gary into such an awkward mess.

They reached their rental car: a grey BMW. Next to them a couple got into their black Audi still singing parts of the final song of the night out loud. Shivers ran down Mark's spine as he remembered what Gary's lips had felt like against his.

‘So, er,’ Mark said uncertainly as Gary unlocked the car. ‘What now?’

‘Back to the studio, I think,’ was Gary’s response.

‘No, I meant – with _us_ ,’ said Mark. He bit his lip nervously.

‘Like I said, back to the studio,’ said Gary again.

Mark stared at him dumbfounded. Surely Gary had thought about what would happen if they ever got together romantically? They couldn’t just pretend nothing had happened and move on with their lives — especially not when they lived snow globe lives that revolved mostly around making compromises and putting up with others in the spotlights.

Then, could Mark have gotten it all wrong? Was Gary content with not taking this night any further than a few kisses and some furtive glances? Had Mark, in his musical ecstasy, imagined the kiss altogether?

Mark opened his mouth to say something, but Gary had already gotten into the car. ‘The studio has soundproof walls, you dope,’ he told Mark a few seconds later through the open window at the passenger side.

Mark didn't need telling twice.


End file.
